


When You Love Someone

by teenuviel1227



Category: Day6 (Band)
Genre: M/M, bripil, iceskating!AU, taggedMforsexytimesbutnothingtoographic, themostunderratedshipinthiswholefandomamirite, youngfeel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-23
Updated: 2018-02-23
Packaged: 2019-03-22 19:19:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13770813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teenuviel1227/pseuds/teenuviel1227
Summary: The one where Brian and Wonpil have been ice skating partners since they were kids and it takes almost twenty years to fall in love but once they’re there, there’s no turning back.





	1. The End, The Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end, the beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second chapter will also be up today. I was hoping to upload all at once but alas, time constraints and hunger so. Give me a few hours and enjoy!
> 
> Also please leave me comments because it is my first time writing for this ship and I am a sap who needs motivation.
> 
> *edit* The 2nd chapter is up. :)

The ice glitters like silver, almost as if it isn’t ice at all but a mirror slick with moonlight. The air in the stadium is thick with anticipation--Brian and Wonpil sit side by side, still wearing their red maple-leaf embroidered athlete’s jackets over their skating outfits, waiting for their turn, waiting for their names to be called.

Beside them, their coach is muttering statistics between reassurances that it’ll be fine. _It’ll be fine._

A pop ballad plays on full blast, the current team in the rink gliding across the ice gracefully, a pink flutter in the periphery of Brian’s vision.

Brian's heart is pounding and he knows from the way Wonpil is holding his hand so tight he’s begun to lose a little feeling in it that he’s nervous too. He glances at Wonpil sitting beside him, his hair styled soft and parted to the side, waves loose and falling into his eyes just right. Brian smiles as he takes in the way that the light catches the color of Wonpil’s honeyed skin, makes his deep brown eyes glimmer as he follows the ongoing program with hawk-like focus.

Wonpil is engrossed in their friends from the South Korean team’s program: on the ice, they finish with a flourish, Sungjin lifting Nayeon up and above him on the final chorus of Time of My Life, a throwback reference to Dirty Dancing. They look beautiful, resplendent in their costumes. Sungjin is in all black, his pants fitting him to a t, his polo shirt unbuttoned to the third button, showing off his strong, proud chest, the taper of his waist; Nayeon is a vision in pink gauze, her skirt shimmering, flowing. As the music swells, she lifts a leg, arches forward in one of the most graceful attitude derrieres that either of them have ever seen before surprising everyone with a turn and launch into a synchronized triple turn before they land soft, graceful with Sungjin on one knee, Nayeon with a slender hand out to him, head lifted gracefully toward the judges. Sungjin kisses the back of her hand as they continue to drift, turning round and round like the figurines on a jewelry box.

The crowd goes wild.

“It’ll be fine,” Brian whispers softly into Wonpil’s ear, rubbing the back of Wonpil’s hand softly. “We’ve got this.”

Their scores appear on screen.

On principle, Brian and Wonpil look away, leave it to their manager to monitor for them, not letting the pressure best them.

“But did you _see_ the clean lift of Sungjin’s back leg, that pause so that he and Nayeon turn at the exact same time? It was genius.”

Brian nods as if considering a postulate for Quantum Theory. “Yeah but have you seen _you_ out there? It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

Wonpil pretends to punch Brian softly in the shoulder but his lips curl into a small smile. “You’re biased.”

Brian grins, pressing a soft kiss to Wonpil’s cheek, his breath warm as he whispers his reply.

“And with good reason.”

“Flirt.”

Brian grins at that, welcoming Wonpil’s weight against him as he rests his head on Brian’s shoulder.

They say no more, opting to sit in comfortable silence, but they both know that the tension has eased, that whatever happens now they’ll both be able to live with because they’ll have been through it together. It’s an unspoken certainty, running between them like the slimmest silver thread, like all of the years they’ve spent together, on the ice and off. Brian knows it like he knows the weight of Wonpil in his arms, like he knows just how far in to lean so that they move together in sync, knowing the exact force with which to spin Wonpil out so that when he turns, their gazes linger on each other for just the right amount of time. Wonpil knows it like he finds his balance best while on the terrain of Brian’s shoulders, knows the melody of his bones most when he’s twisting, turning, skipping to Brian’s rhythm.

_It’ll be okay._

The main commentator’s voice booms through the stadium.

“And that was the South Korean team with a beautiful, fresh program that really made you feel a sense of nostalgia and longing _._ I wonder if they’ll be able to take the gold home this year. Despite the fact that they won in 2014, the stakes are high for Park and Im this year because the Kings of Romance on the ice are back--and skating next--to represent Canada. I wonder if it’ll end up being to their benefit that they chose such a romantic free dance.”

“It _was_ pretty shocking especially because Park and Im are usually better known for their technical accuracy but save for that last bit, which was just exquisite, mind you, we didn’t see a lot of very _showy_ moves tonight,” the co-anchor says. “It’s almost as though they’d picked this _specifically_ to compete with Kang and Kim.”

“My thoughts exactly. The rivalry between their coaches is no secret--anyone who keeps up with ice dancing will know that for the longest time, South Korea had been bidding for Kang’s contract. Park Sungjin turns twenty-six this year and rumors have it a bid has been put in for Kim Wonpil this time to pair off with one of their younger trainees, Lee Chan.”

Brian and Wonpil head over to the ice, hand-in-hand, watching the ice glisten, watching the lights dimming, their Coach moving to stand by the technician’s table, cueing the music.

“On that note, up next, we have Brian Kang and Wonpil Kim who are simultaneously the most endeared and most controversial ice dancing duo to ever hit the ice. They almost broke the figure skating world and the internet when they debuted as the first same-sex ice dancing partners during the 2010 olympics. Since then, the couple have won medal after medal after medal with their theatrical, romantic programs. However, they are definitely the dark horses tonight as in 2013, Brian was diagnosed with a chronic knee injury which is why they had to bow out of Sochi. According to the duo, Kang has been treated and they’ve trained well for tonight. I’m genuinely curious if they’ll be able to pull a comeback. Not going to lie, they were my favorites and watching them skate really tugs on the heartstrings.”

Brian takes off his jacket, leaving it on the bleachers. He catches Wonpil’s eye and knows that Wonpil is watching him, long-lashed eyes blinking slow, if at all to take the sight of Brian in: tonight’s outfit consists of a black top that mimics a black leather jacket, the studs done up in rhinestones to sparkle on the ice. Underneath is a sheer white top tucked into his pants which have been made in the likeness and hue of blue jeans but in breathable, skate-friendly fabric. Brian’s hair is swept up and off his forehead ala James Dean, cross earring glittering in his left ear. Brian knows that he looks good, can tell from the way a soft, pink blush is making its way across Wonpil’s cheeks, a mischievous smile playing on his lips.

“Tonight is going to be make or break for them. Eight years is a long time--practically forever in athletics. Are they going to take back the gold or was 2010 the highlight for these two? I watched them at some of the Skate Canada events over the years and I can tell you they’ve just gotten better--but I don’t want to speak too soon.”

Wonpil doesn’t break eye contact with Brian, unzips his jacket slow, letting it drop onto the bleachers, knowing that Brian’s eyes are on him. Brian’s heart jumps in his chest--this is their pre-game, their athletic foreplay, so to speak: there’s something about the spark and sizzle of seeing the other emerge fully costumed, of seeing each soft curve and lean sinew birthed by the casting off of their bulky jackets.

Brian feels his cheeks warm up as he takes the vision of Wonpil, his partner, his friend, the only man he’s ever loved. Wonpil’s outfit tonight is a white, gauzy shirt reminiscent of something right out of an Elizabeth Taylor film--its sleeves billow out and then taper above the elbows, the waist is tight, done up in a delicate bow to mimic a classic midriff top. The line of the chest dips low, the fabric swept back to show off Wonpil’s shoulders and Brian just knows how good he’ll look when they’re on the ice and it billows as they move. His pants are basic but well-fitted: an elegant, velveteen black. Wonpil’s makeup has been done to emphasize his beautiful eyes, the dark kohl showing off just how thick his lashes are, two silver stick-on gems at the outer corners of his eyes lending him a coquettishness that makes Brian ache with desire. His lips are lightly tinted a soft crimson, just enough to be ripe for kissing, to hint at cherry wine.

“Only one way to find out, I guess. Skating to Taylor Swift’s _Style_ and representing Canada, we have Brian Kang and Wonpil Kim!”

Applause ripples through the stadium.

Brian steps out onto the ice first, turning back to offer Wonpil his outstretched hand. Wonpil moves graceful as a cat in moonlight, stepping into the rink and taking Brian’s hand. To Brian, it feels like taking flight as they proceed to center-stage, the wind beneath their wings. Wonpil feels his heart soar: this is how they’d grown up--moving on the ice together comes more naturally to them than walking on the ground apart. It’s their first language, their ancient creed: Wonpil’s hand in Brian’s, taking it one step at a time.

The spotlights find them, coloring them both silver, illuminating everything. Wonpil grins as he poises his hand to rest on Brian’s chest as if to push him away--he knows the exact push-and-pull of Brian, knows that however strong or softly he pushes, Brian will know how to adjust accordingly. Brian moves a hand to rest ever-so-lightly on Wonpil’s wrist. Brian mouths _we’ve got this_ before turning his head to the left, the line of his neck, his jaw strong, tensed as if in desire, in want. Wonpil looks up and past Brian’s shoulder, making eyes at the crowd.

And the music begins: that first strumming of rhythm guitar, the soft one-two-three of the keys, and then that heavy, thrumming bass--Wonpil pushes at Brian and Brian lets himself drift just far enough before catching Wonpil’s wrist, using the momentum so that they circle each other in perfect half-moons, arms outstretched as if in longing as they dip together on the ice, Brian’s expression rapt as Wonpil glides away from, toward him, just-out-of-reach.

 _Midnight, you come and pick me up, no headlights_  
_Long drive, could end in burning flames or paradise_  
_Fade into view, oh--_

Right on cue, Wonpil pushes forward, does a turn to face Brian, lifting his arms so that his shirt billows as his hands skim Brian’s as they glide across the ice, one single, fluttering body--white on black, sparkle on sheen.

_It's been a while since I have even heard from you  
(Heard from you) _

Brian softly presses a hand to Wonpil’s back, feels Wonpil tense for the lift and just like that, they’re one: Brian lifting Wonpil into his arms, Wonpil curling around him, pressing Brian’s head softly against his chest--but also, carrying more of Brian’s weight than he let on, their routine heavily adjusted for Brian’s knee injury, both of them carrying each other so they appear to float, glide light as a kite in the breeze.

 _And I should just tell you to leave 'cause I_  
_Know exactly where it leads but I_  
_Watch it go round and round each time_

With a flurry of movement, Brian shifts Wonpil around him like a magician would a cape, like a film would with light. Now,  he is holding onto Brian’s strong shoulders, his chest, now wound onto his strong thighs, nose skimming the breadth of his neck, before landing softly on the ice so they skate facing each other, just short of kissing.

The crowd cheers so loud that they can barely hear the music, now, going purely on the rhythm, on the way they’ve practiced, on each other’s small tells that they’ve memorized from years of skating together.

The last riff of pre-chorus guitar comes in slick, curling around the rhythm.

A beat.

In a single, floating movement, they launch into synchronized double-turns but in opposing directions,  landing so that they’re skating facing the same way, Brian’s chest almost pressed to Wonpil’s back, their unison not wavering for a moment. A turn of the ankle, a swish of the hips, a flick of the wrist and Wonpil’s hand is in Brian’s, and he’s furling him out in an exquisite turn, Brian’s faux-leather jacket flapping from the movement, the inky blackness of it sleek on the white of the ice. Wonpil grins as they pause to enjoy the site of each other, cheeks cold-bitten pink, eyes intense, a little breathless.

The chorus hits and Brian pulls Wonpil toward him.

 _You got that James Dean daydream look in your eye_  
_And I got that red lip, classic thing that you like_  
_And when we go crashing down, we come back every time_  
_'Cause we never go out of style, we never go out of style_

The footwork is incredible, Wonpil moving graceful but swift, like a top finding its momentum and on the last downbeat, he’s in Brian’s arms and they’re both gliding across the ice in unison. Everything is in sync: the soft angles of their knees, the little turns and steps, sashays and shimmies, the long, graceful strides across the ice.  

It all passes more quickly than either of them expect--but isn’t that how it’s always been with them? One moment, six, seven years old and shy, the next, seventeen and rapt with fears of unrequited love--and now, twenty-seven and absolutely, irrevocably in love. Every lift and turn, twist and jump, pirouette and halt-and-waltz perfectly timed. Before long, they find themselves at the end of it, holding each other center-stage much in the same way they started but now, Wonpil with his hand on Brian’s nape as if to draw him close, one leg wrapped around Brian’s thigh--and Brian with his hand around Wonpil’s waist, free hand cupping his cheek.

They barely hear the outro as the crowd roars with applause.

“Holy shit,” says the commentator. “Holy shit, they’ve still got it. They definitely got it right: these two just never go out of style! FIRE ABSOLUTE FIRE ON THE ICE!”

 

At first, their parents thought it was a kind of preposterous idea: both of them had been practicing with each other in the absence of any female partners for them to skate with--everyone was taken at the moment and those who weren’t, weren’t quite up to the rigorous training schedules that they’d gotten used to. Their parents hadn’t forced them into it but it was something that they’d both just started getting up earlier and earlier for until hour-long 8:00 AM practice turned into four-hour-long 6:00 AM practice.

When they’d brought that up with the other girls’ parents, they’d laughed, thinking it was a joke and then made unfulfilled promises of _we’ll get back to you_ upon realizing that it wasn’t. The other factor was personality.

Wonpil wasn’t so much shy as he was reserved: he didn’t feel intimidated by social presence, he just didn’t feel like talking until he felt like talking--after which he couldn’t stop to save his life. He had an unsettling habit of watching the other person from across the ice, quietly deciding on them like a clock makes up its mind about time. The girls he’d decided not to talk to had found him extremely frustrating, both of them spinning out of sync because Wonpil refused to tell them to spin a bit farther out or come farther in, had just decided not to communicated. The ones he decided to talk to balked at him asking if they would carry _him_ for a change.

Brian was headstrong and bull-headed but loved to joke around almost as much as he loved to perfect rhythm and groove out on the ice. He was a sucker for meter and would demand that they start again every time his partners missed a beat: again! Again! Again! When he saw his partners getting upset, he’d try and undercut his fastidiousness with humor which didn’t always work: _again, nincompoop!_ didn’t quite have the friendly ring to it that he’d imagined when he’d thought it up.

And so in that way, they were kind of perfect for each other. Early on, Wonpil had decided on Brian: he was definitely going to talk non-stop at this person. Their first conversation, Wonpil had stared at Brian as he did a playful half-jog across the ice before swooping into curling figure eights. _I know that song_ , he’d thought, thinking of an old Beach Boys number that his parents always had on loop.

That was the count, in his mind: one-two-three-four, a-one-and-two-- _wouldn’t it be nice if we were older, then we wouldn’t have to wait so long?_

So he’d gone up to him to make sure, skating along to Brian’s routine, humming it under his breath and following suit. Swoop, turn, twist, double-step, swoop, shift-and-shimmy, swoop.

 _Wouldn’t it be nice if we could wake up?  
_ _In the morning when the day is new?_

By the time that they’d finished, Brian was watching Wonpil just as curiously as Wonpil had been watching him. They turned to face each other by the bleachers.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“You have old people’s taste in music.” Wonpil grinned, finding this extremely amusing.

Brian raised an eyebrow. “I don’t have money to buy cassettes of more hip stuff. And wait--how did you know that?”

Wonpil shrugged. “It’s the same count.”

Brian grinned at that--cocky, glad to find a worthy adversary. “Bet you can’t skate it again without humming it.”

Wonpil smiled, coy, not saying anything, just moving back toward the center of the rink.

“What are you waiting for?”

 

Their first competitive routine was by no means perfect or riveting, especially compared to the stuff that they’d come up with in the future, but both of them will remember it forever--the routine that changed their lives, that changed their parents’ minds. Brian was thirteen, Wonpil twelve: both of them on the cusp of being allowed to compete in the Junior Worlds, of being paired off with other people.

Even back then, both of them knew there would be no one else.

“I’ll--I’ll punch them in the gut!” Brian joked as they ate their snacks post-practice--grilled cheese and coffee they weren’t supposed to have pilfered from the vending machine. He mock-threw jabs at the air.

Wonpil snorted, sitting cross-legged as he bit into the welcome warmth of his sandwich. “You might break your fists.”

Brian rolled his eyes. “I’m _serious._ I don’t wanna skate with anyone else.”

Wonpil studied Brian’s face: eyes serious, lips down-turned in a frown. “You like me.”

“HAH.” Brian tried to keep the heat out of his cheeks. It wasn’t _like_ that, not really. He just liked being around Wonpil, was used to him, could tell him anything. Also, he had a nice smile. Also, his favourite part of the routines they made out was when they practiced lifts and he swept Wonpil up into a lover’s carry, held him close as they skimmed the ice.

Wonpil scooched closer, holding his sandwich up as if to threaten Brian with it. “Admit it.”

Brian bit into the sandwich. “I really like….your sandwich.”

Wonpil sighed. “I guess I’ll ask my mom to pair me off with Wendy or something.”

Brian shoved at him. “I’ll kill you.”

Wonpil grinned.

“Seriously,” Brian said, his voice wavering with despair. “What’re we going to _do_? I’m already used to your bullshit. I don’t want to get used to anyone else’s.”

This bit was true: the past six or so years, they’d been one another’s constant companion--they went to separate schools but barely talked to anyone there. Wonpil had remained quiet, had a couple of people he made small talk with, but after he’d decided on Brian, after knowing how well they’d clicked, after getting used to his weird ticks and tells, he’d given up deciding on other people. At school, Brian spent most of his time sleeping, studying as hard as he had to to make a decent grade and then saving all of his energy for the rink. Anyway, anything he had to tell anyone, he could tell Wonpil: fart jokes, fears about what they were going to do in the future, Goosebumps issues he pilfered from the library. He just had to be awake for practice and practice meant Wonpil and that was it.

Wonpil shrugged. “Why don’t we just show them?”

It took their parents some convincing once they’d figured out what they’d had in mind. _There isn’t even a category for that!_ They knew how it looked, they knew what people might say. They didn’t give two shits.

The routine was to a mix of Britney Spears’ Sometimes that they’d cut and recorded themselves using a blank tape, Wonpil’s Britney CD, and Brian’s boombox. The steps were basic but the lifts and and turns, the idiosyncrasies of it were all their own. Their outfits were improvised, all white and put together based more on the music video than anything.

Brian had chosen one of his oversized white knits that he only ever wore to family occasions, Wonpil had gone for one of his older sister’s oversized button-downs that hung loose on his lean frame, caught in the wind as they skated.

Their parents sat on the bleachers. Brian's mom glanced at her watch. Wonpil's dad looked perplexed.

Brian and Wonpil stood facing each other as they would hundreds of times over the coming years. Wonpil was nervous, his heart pounding. Everything rested on this. They had to skate like they were in love.

_It shouldn’t be too hard._

Brian took a breath, decided on one mantra: be here, now.

In that moment, he shut everything out--the impending competitions, all the practice time that they’d put in, all of the possibilities of disappointment.

The piano intro played soft, the soft guitars moving crisp but subtle, the percussion tinkling like starlight. Wonpil skated a half-moon around Brian before moving close, lifting a leg gracefully. The drums kicked in and Brian moved a hand up to Wonpil’s nape, both of them almost touching but not quite as Brian pulled Wonpil toward him as they glided across the ice.

 _You tell me you're in love with me_  
_Like you can't take your pretty eyes away from me_  
_It's not that I don't wanna stay_  
_But every time you come too close I move away_

Wonpil hikes a leg up, Brian catching him in time and dipping them both until they’re almost swaying like the hands on a clock--almost touching the ice, almost touching each other, held up only by trust that the other wouldn’t give out.

 _Sometimes I run_  
_Sometimes I hide_  
_Sometimes I'm scared of you_  
_But all I really want is to hold you tight_  
_Treat you right, be with you day and night_

As the chorus hit, Wonpil leaned on Brian and like clockwork, Brian pulled him up, the heft of him familiar, the one thing that he’s really known. Wonpil lets his legs kick out gracefully, sweeping through the air in a flurry of white before he curls up into Brian’s waiting arms. Brian moves them across the ice in figure-eights before he moves a hand onto Wonpil’s waist--their signal to prepare for a lift, a jump--and on the last minute, Wonpil unfurls himself, standing tall and proud as Brian lifts him up and over before landing softly on the ice, hand-in-hand and breathless.

When the music ended, when their gazes landed on their parents’ faces, they didn’t need to hear them say anything--they knew that they’d seen what the two of them had known for the longest time. They would change the rules, would sign whatever petition, would beat the odds for them to be able to compete as a unit because chemistry like _that_ was once in a lifetime.

 


	2. Everything Else

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning--there is smut in this chapter. :D Hope you guys enjoy this. The playlist has been updated :3
> 
> Hollah at me because I want to write more YoungFeel in the future and sad as it may be, I am the kind of person who relies quite heavily on external motivation. So yeah. xD Please and thank you!
> 
> Twt: @teenuviel1227  
> CC: teenuviel1227

The injury surfaces after they take home the gold in 2010 and before they're set to go for it again in 2014. It’s a small, annoying tick that Brian takes to ignoring for the first year-and-a-half or so and it creeps up on them like a thief in the night. It doesn’t affect his movement on the ice, not really--they still take home the prize, they still win every competition they enter afterward, but Wonpil can tell that something is wrong. More than fourteen years is enough to know if a tune doesn’t ring true, however slightly off-rails it may lean.

He doesn’t bring it up, afraid of what Brian might say, knowing that Brian can sometimes be like fire: warm one moment and scalding the next. It’s as small as a crack in a tooth: that slight sway in his timing, the small delays on the lift, the tension before his hands find Wonpil’s waist to carry him up and into a glide at an arabesque--it’s less than a millisecond but fourteen years and Wonpil’s never known Brian to waver without saying _again, let’s do it again._ So when they finish routine after routine after routine with that tiny lapse, that small skipping of film, and Brian not saying anything, just doing extra stretches by the sidelines, Wonpil knows that something is very, very wrong.

It happens one winter morning in 2013.

They’ve moved away from their families to train, have been living together in a small apartment for around five years now: it’s close to the rink and small but cozy, both of them having made it their own--Brian furnishing the place with his records, his vintage movie posters, Wonpil lending a softness to it with his colorful pillows and mismatched mugs and cups collected from all over the world. They have adjacent bedrooms with beds tracked up against the same wall. This is Brian’s favorite feature of the entire space: he’d been too proud to ask Wonpil if they could share a room and too shy to ask him if they could share a bed (although they’d done that as children, things were different now--had been for a couple of years, that attraction between them simmering and threatening to spill out into something else), but the closest thing they had to it was this--the wall was thin enough, the acoustics of the wood old enough so that they could whisper to one another through the wood. They used it the way that Wonpil reckons other people use social media: their messages varying from _Sweet dreams, Bri_ to _Thank you for today, Pillie_ to _You wanna pig out on donuts and make coach angry tomorrow?_

Today, Wonpil wakes up early but opts to stay in bed, this being one of those rare days where they don’t have practice. He’s thinking about whether to go out on a food run and surprise Brian with bacon and eggs and waffles or ask Brian if he wants to go out for breakfast--Brian’s birthday’s coming up and he loves the way that the diner down the street gets all dressed up in holly this time of year--or just skip the whispering wall altogether and get into Brian’s bed like he’d been dreaming of doing for years. He sighs, wondering how many hours of skating, how many gold medals it’ll take for that feeling of longing to disappear. _Don’t be an idiot._ He shifts in bed, turning to hug his pillow. He’s about to knock on the wood and ask Brian what he wants for breakfast when Brian beats it to him, his voice deep and raspy with sleep.

“Pil? I need help--I can’t stand up. My leg hurts.”

 

Wonpil gets Brian up and into the car with Brian’s arm slung around him, Wonpil leveraging him with an arm wrapped around his waist. Wonpil feels the worry building in Brian as they drive to the hospital, both of them sitting in silence. Wonpil fills out the forms, all the while holding Brian’s hand tenderly with his free hand, stroking the back of it as if to say _It’s okay, it’ll all be okay._

They stay that way long after they’ve taken Brian’s labs, after they’ve been called into the doctor’s white office where the heat is on too low and the smell reminds Wonpil of the weighing room pre-game: a strange blend of antiseptic and gym socks. When Wonpil lets go to help wheel Brian in and out of the labs, Brian turns to him as if to say _don’t go._

“It’s a tear in the meniscus,” the doctor announces after studying Brian’s labs. “It seems pretty severe--I’m guessing you’ve been feeling pain, tension for a while and have been ignoring it? Skating on it pretty heavily?

Brian nods, tears brimming from his eyes. “Yeah--yeah I have.”

Wonpil squeezes his hand, turns to the doctor. “What do we have to do?”

“Well, I would recommend surgery at this point. There are some cases where you just have to rest and we ask you to do some PT but this is pretty severe. You can’t walk because your joint’s locked up and we can see if relaxants will help decompress that but even then, I’d go in for surgery to actually repair that.”

Wonpil glances at Brian, knows what’s on his mind--the Olympics, their routine, the rink.

When Brian speaks, Wonpil already knows what he’s going to ask.

“Will I ever skate again?”

The doctor frowns. “Well. Let’s just say the odds are against us.”

 

“The _odds_ are against us? What a fucking asshole,” Wonpil says as he drives them home, beeping at every car, bicycle, and motorbike that makes the mistake of getting in their way. Brian is silent in the passenger’s seat, looking out at the snow falling.

“At least he was honest,” Brian says, his voice shaky with unshed tears. “I’m such an idiot.”

Wonpil reaches for his hand, squeezes it tight. “Don’t say that. I should’ve said something too--I noticed it, those micro-stalls, the slight stiffness, but I thought it might just be age or the seasons shifting. It never affected your performance so I didn't think to bring it up. I’m sorry, Bri.”

Brian sighs, watching Wonpil’s handsome face stricken with worry, eyebrows furrowed, wide mouth curled into a frown. “It’s not your fault. You should--find a different partner, Pillie.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?

Brian’s voice breaks, tears slide down his cheeks. “You heard him. I’m never going to skate again. You should find another partner before it’s too late. I let the whole team down--our parents, the coach--”

Wonpil hits the hazard light, pulls them over onto the shoulder lane. The late morning sun is bleak, pale. He pulls up the hand break, undoes his seatbelt and turns to face Brian.

“Hey. Look at me.”

Brian is sobbing now, his breath coming out in small shivers. He turns to look at Wonpil.

Wonpil studies Brian’s face, wipes the tears away softly. Oh, those eyes he’s loved so dearly, that heart-shaped face, usually so intense with focus or laughter. His heart lurches to see him cry.

“I mean it, Pil. You heard the doctor. It’s hopeless. You worked so hard and the odds--”

“--the odds have always been stacked against us, you idiot,” Wonpil says, smiling a small, tender smile, brushing Brian’s hair away from his tear-streaked face. “You ever hear of two _guys_ skating together at the _Olympics_ before you and me? That’s right. No you didn’t-- _we_ did that. There wasn’t a place for us so we made it. If you want me to skate with someone else, you’ll have to hit me over the head with a frying pan and transplant my legs onto some other person because I’m not going to do it.”

Wonpil watches Brian’s features soften, his lower lip trembling again.

“Pil, I--”

 _I love you,_ Brian thinks. _I’ve been in love with you since we were seven._

 _I love you more than anyone I’ve ever met,_ Wonpil thinks. _You have to get better. You will._

“--I know,” Wonpil says, grinning. “What did you do to deserve me right?”

Brian rolls his eyes, but there is a kind of lightness to the air, a renewal of hope. He grins despite himself, screws his face up in imitation of Wonpil, making his voice higher-pitched than usual. “Blahblahblah what’d you do to deserve me?”

Wonpil crosses his eyes, pushes his nose up with a finger. “BLAHBLAH I’M BRIAN. PIL YOU SHOULD GO SKATE WITH SOMEONE ELSE--”

“--conceited prissy.” _I love you. I love you I love you I love you._

“Ungrateful braggart.” _I’ll take care of you. Hang in there._

With that, Wonpil puts his seatbelt back on, and pulls them back onto the highway.

“Breakfast at the diner?”

“Hell yeah.”

 

It isn’t easy. The first few months after surgery are a kind of hell for both of them: their coach comes over to help for a couple of days but has to head off pretty quickly to train some of their other colleagues, their parents drop by for the first week but both Brian and Wonpil encourage them to head back home--it puts pressure on both of them to act like everything’s okay, to act like they’re upbeat when they aren’t. Brian gets cranky from having to be dependent on Wonpil: it isn’t that he doesn’t like the whole Wonpil feeding him thing or Wonpil cooking for him thing or Wonpil stroking his hair before he goes to sleep thing--no, that bit is actually kind of a dream for Brian. The thing that gets to him is not being able to reciprocate: he isn’t able to help with the dishes, to help change the water bottle--and worst of all, isn’t able to help Wonpil help him in and out of bed. For the walking part, there are crutches, but the actual sitting up, the actual pushing the covers aside that bit is hell.

When physical therapy starts, it gets even worse: Brian feels weak where he’s never been before--dancing, skating, that was his _thing_ and now, he finds himself struggling to just walk, the pain searing through him at the slightest bend, the slightest weight put on his leg. It makes him cranky which makes Wonpil cranky which leads to long stretches of silence between them that they aren’t quite sure how to deal with.

How do you _not_ talk to the only person you’ve ever talked to on a daily basis for the past fifteen or so years?

How do you love someone and give them space?

The turning point comes on the day of the Olympics’ Ice Dancing free skate--they’d both woken up tense, lain on opposite sides of their shared whisper wall unmoving, hoping the other wouldn’t know they were already awake but Wonpil snores when he’s tired and when that stops, Brian knows that he’s up. And Brian has a habit of stretching, groaning first thing when he wakes up and the creaking bed gives him away.

After a few minutes, Wonpil lets out a sigh before whispering to the wall.

“What do you want for breakfast?”

“Whatever’s easiest to make.”

“We don’t have any of that on the menu, sorry.”

“Really, Pil. Whatever’s fine.”

“I _told_ you. We don’t have whatever on the menu.”

Brian sighs. “Fine. An eight-course French meal.”

“Stop being so difficult.”

“Stop treating me like a baby.”

“Stop acting like one.”

 

The whole day goes by tense, quiet. Wonpil takes care of Brian but doesn’t ask him anymore questions. Brian lets Wonpil do it, but averts his eyes: not wanting to see that question there, that sullen and silent _are you mad?_ That he knows is going to be painted all over Wonpil’s face.

It’s around seven in the evening when Brian calls Wonpil over, asks him to help him up from where he’s been lying in bed, reading. Wonpil does as he’s asked, is gentle but firm, already suspecting what Brian’s going to do even before he hobbles toward the television.

“Don’t do it, Bri."

“Just rip the band-aid off, right? I mean, it can’t hurt more than wondering--”

“--there’s _rip the band-aid off_ and then there’s _self-flagellation_. What good is it going to do to see that, huh? It’ll just discourage you.” Wonpil walks past him, takes the remote and holds it behind his back.

“Real mature.” Brian frowns. “Come on. I figure if I hit rock bottom, then there’s no way but up.”

“There _is_ no way but up,” Wonpil says. “You’ve been making progress in therapy. You can go from sitting to standing--”

“--sitting on to standing _on crutches,_ Pil. It’s taken me two months to do that. I’m stupid, I’m slow--”

“--shut _up_!” Wonpil says, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re not slow. You’re not stupid. Stop saying these things about yourself--”

“--it’s _true--_ ”

Wonpil feels his heart beating fast, the surge of emotion finally pouring out until he loses all restraint, all self-control.

“--it’s not true, you idiot. You’re smart and talented and wonderful and most people can’t even take a _step_ after the first two months. And even if you were slow and even if it did take you more time than other people for once in your life, is that really so bad? Because what matters to me is that you’re alive and you’re safe and you’re not out there risking your life for what, some stupid gold pendant that’s probably plated? I swear to god, if I hear you say one more dumb thing putting yourself down, I’m going to explode!”

“Don’t you think it hurts me too?” Brian’s voice is shaking with anger, with concern. “I hate seeing you working so hard just to help me out when I know that you’d rather be out there on the ice, when I know that you could be there--”

Despite himself, Wonpil walks over, helps Brian as he slides down into a seat, setting his crutches aside.

“--but I don’t want to be there, don’t you see that?” Wonpil sits down next to Brian, so close that their shoulders brush. He brings his forehead flush with Brian’s, the tips of their noses less a centimeter apart. His heart is pounding. _Ah, fuck it. What else do I have to lose?_ “I didn’t fall in love with you because of ice dancing. I fell in love with ice dancing because of you.”

Brian looks up, meeting Wonpil’s gaze, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “You’re in l--”

“--it’s okay if you don’t feel the same,” Wonpil says quickly, rubbing Brian’s back.“I didn’t say it to start anything, I just said it because I need you to know what a wonderful person you are. I need you to believe in yourself even if we never skate again because if you’re going to figure it all out again after this, I’m going to have to do that too. I’m not getting back on the ice without you, okay?”

Brian feels his heart swell, feels his shoulders start to shake from the sobs building in his chest. Wonpil feels the same! All these years, they’ve felt the same. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but isn’t sure where to start, so instead he does something they’ve done hundreds of times before on the ice. He lifts a hand to Wonpils nape and draws him closer slowly, slowly, until their lips meet in a kiss.

It’s soft, tender but deep, both of them sighing into the kiss. It just feels right, feels like something has unlocked in both of them: a hidden brightness, a new hope. When they pull away, both of them are breathless.

“I always thought that I was enough, you know,” Brian says, finally finding the words. “As a kid, skating and singing, learning instruments, going to lessons, learning things were my life. I just wanted to do things and do them well, become successful. My dad always taught me not to regret anything and not to do anything that I’d regret. So I’d made a pact with myself: never choose anything that would drag me down. When my mom kept insisting that pairs were the way to go with skating, I thought she was being hard-headed. I wanted to skate singles, wanted to keep on writing programs on my own, wanted to keep skating on my own.”

“Has it been a choice that you’ve regretted?” Wonpil asks, smiling, already knowing the answer. “Skating with me?”

Brian shakes his head. “How can I regret that? Like all the best things in life, I didn’t choose you--you chose _me_ , remember?”

Wonpil grins, the corners of his eyes crinkling in that way that Brian loves. Softly, in that unique voice that Brian never tires of hearing, Wonpil starts to sing.

 _Wouldn’t it be nice if we were older?_  
_Then we wouldn’t have to wait so long?_  
_Wouldn’t it be nice to live together_  
_In the kind of world where we belong?_

Now, Brian is smiling too. He kisses Wonpil again, sweet and slow, savoring the way that he tastes, the way that their lips feel against each other--more than a decade in the making, love burning slow like a fire from a match lighting up an entire blackberry field.

“Talk about foreshadowing, huh.”

 

Their first few sessions back on the ice are difficult. For one thing, they can only skate for a maximum of an hour and a half a day--and even then, the doctor says, at that rate, Brian will only be able to compete for a couple of years after before his knee wears out, before he’ll have to hang up his skates. They try the simplest of all their old routines: Brian skates better than the average person but stumbles every now and then, Wonpil helping him up every time, walking him through everything again. After a few weeks, the main problem becomes apparent: all of their signature tricks are the ones that Brian can no longer do. Previously, they’d relied on two things--Wonpil’s flexibility and Brian’s strength. Brian’s knee can’t take the tension of Wonpil using him to leverage himself anymore. They’ll have to start from scratch.

It’s Wonpil who figures it out.

It clicks as they’re doing a simple routine, just gliding across the ice to Meatloaf’s I’d Do Anything For Love, practicing being in sync again, re-learning how to change up their momentum to suit one another, gauging how complex the footwork could get before they began to tire. And then Brian lifts his arms and Wonpil is reminded of that first day when Brian had called out for help, when he’d taken him to the hospital: Wonpil had gotten him into the car, Wonpil had gotten him out of the bed.

“Bri. I’ve got it.”

“What?”

“You have to lean on me, too. A counterweight. Let me take some of it.”

Brian frowns but is willing to adjust, willing to try. “Okay. It’ll feel weird but okay.”

“It’s the only thing that makes sense. It’ll ease up the tension on your knee, and it’ll give me something to push up against when we go up for the lift.”

“Okay. Let’s try.”

Wonpil nods, walks up to restart the track before meeting Brian in the center of the rink. The piano intro comes on and they circle each other, improvising--Brian lifting his arms to graze Wonpil’s cheek, Wonpil doing a couple of dips, a few twists.

 _And I would do anything for love_  
_I'd run right into hell and back_  
_I would do anything for love_  
_I'd never lie to you and that's a fact_

Their eyes meet.

 _Lift on the eighth count,_ Wonpil mouths.

Brian nods.

They both fall into their signature glide, letting the music carry them.

 _As long as the planets are turning_  
_As long as the stars are burning_  
_As long dreams are coming true_  
_You'd better believe it, that I would do_

When Brian’s hand tenses on the small of Wonpil’s back, Wonpil goes for the jump, this time carrying himself, letting Brian push up against him--and they’re up, soaring across the ice.

 _Anything for love_  
_And you know it's true and that's a fact_  
_I would do anything for love, and there'll never be no turning back_  
_But I'll never do it better than I do it with you, so long, so long_

The small hairs on the backs of Brian’s arms stand as he realizes what’s happening. _They’re doing it! They’re going to skate again!_

In response, Wonpil reaches forward, back and up, letting his arms carve half-moons in the air before he launches into a half-turn, landing on the ice facing Brian, their fingertips touching. By the time the music stops, by the time they land, they’re both crying. Brian tugs at Wonpil until he’s holding him tight in his arms.

“I love you,” he whispers softly between warm kisses. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

 

That night, they make love for the first time, finally crossing that threshold held between them like some sacred barrier, like something they both felt they had to earn. They make a night of it, stopping by the nearby convenience store to get supplies--condoms, lube, a bottle of champagne, deciding that they were finally going to do away with that stupid whispering wall. Tonight, Wonpil finds himself in Brian’s bed.

It’s slow and a little awkward and they’re both shy, both never having done it before--they didn’t have time, they didn’t really have anyone else--but also, they’re confident and eager, both of them knowing that if they were going to do it with anyone, it would be one another. It fits. It feels right.

Brian peels away the soft fabric of Wonpil’s shirt slowly, kissing his neck, his shoulders, taking his time as he makes his way down the thin skin of Wonpil’s ribs, the hollow of his hips. Wonpil lets out soft, small moans, letting his hands explore the terrain of Brian’s bare back, his chest, bringing his fingers to the soft skin of Brian’s nipples, rubbing soft and slow until they pucker. They take their time with each other: savoring every pleasure-filled instance to taste, to lick, to suck, to bite. Brian slips a thigh between Wonpil’s legs, enjoying the way that they gasp against each other, hips bucking, knowing now that they’re both stiff with arousal, that they’re both hungry and wanting for each other.

Wonpil holds Brian down by the hips, slowly shimmying his boxers off of his hips until they come to rest at the swell of his thighs. Wonpil strokes him slow, close, enjoying the way that Brian moans his name, the way that Brian’s buries his face against Wonpil’s neck, kissing frantic and hurried.

They pause for a moment, Brian taking a moment to brush Wonpil’s hair away from his face, to enjoy the way he looks lying beneath him, the way that his hair fans out on his pillow.

“You’re beautiful.”

“Flirt.”

Brian chuckles. “You ready?”

Wonpil nods. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

Brian reaches for the condoms, slips one over himself before he takes a generous helping of the lube, works himself up until he’s slick, putting another dollop onto his fingers for Wonpil, prying him open slow, getting him to relax into the bloom and pucker. He goes in slow, watching Wonpil’s face for any signs of pain or hesitation.

Wonpil gasps at the length and breadth of Brian pushing into him, arches his back and breathes in deep. Brain rubs the hollows of his hips in comfort. “You alright, Pillie?”

Wonpil nods, letting out a breath and smiling up at Brian. “Go slow.”

They go slow, start out tender--Brian pushing in, the thrill of how good Wonpil feels around him lighting a fire in his gut, sending a thrill down his spine. They go slow until either of them can hold off, Wonpil bucking his hips to meet Brian’s thrusts, Brian a loud, moaning mess above him. With his free hand, Brian strokes Wonpil until he, too, is crying out, until his hands form fists in the sheets, until they’re both spilt and satiated, exhausted and humming, more alive than either of them have ever felt in their lives.

 

The crowd roars as the announcement is made, both of them unable to believe it. GOLD, they’d said. GOLD! Brian blinks up at the lights. Wonpil grins, clapping a hand over his mouth. Their coach yells, doing a victory dance. Their parents hug each other before sweeping them up into giant bear hugs, too. They walk over to the press booth, both of them still stunned as the medals are hung on their necks, as the bouquets are pushed into their arms.

“We did it,” Brian whispers in disbelief. “Pillie, baby, we did it.”

Wonpil grins. “I never had any doubts.”

“ _I never had any doubts,_ ” Brian mimics. “Right, Mr. Did-You-See-What-Sungjin-Did-With-His-Leg. Sure. You tell yourself that.”

Wonpil laughs, squeezing Brian’s hand as they’re lead over to the press table to answer a couple of questions with some of the press.

“What’re the plans for after this?” one of the reporters asks. 

Wonpil and Brian look at each other. Brian leans forward to answer.

“We’d like to take this moment to announce that we’re going to be officially retiring in June. After this, we won’t be competing anymore and will take time out instead to coach the younger generation, help pass the knowledge on.”

Cameras flash, the sounds of shutters filling the air.

“Mr. Kim,” one of the reporters asks, tipping his mic toward Wonpil. “Does that mean that the rumors are true? Will you be skating alongside anyone from the South Korean team? Someone younger? Are you allowed to name your next partner?”

Wonpil lets out a laugh. “I'm afraid Brian’s it for me. There is no next partner.”


End file.
